Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
The bark of his laughter sounded far better than anything else that could have ricocheted or reflected in turn; allowing for a smile to bloom along her mouth, pressing inwards, striving for it to reach the sanction of her ribs. “Okay. Any colors you had in mind?” Stones she could always do – diving headlong into the reaches and stretches of the world for vivid hues and dazzling colors. An occupation of her mind when everything else seemed so readily available to distort and deceive.
The challenge, the promise, laden within should’ve inspired a series of conspiracies and revolutions in her head – but she could only half-heartedly laugh. Eager for it to be true and real, instead of all these fault lines and despairing pieces of hope. Tucked within his wall of arms and chest and assurances were other notions and sentiments: fears she wouldn’t give voice to, a rise in panic and chaos barbing down the length of her throat. It wasn’t the time. It wasn’t the place. Melita wasn’t certain there’d be one.
But the fragility to come wasn’t lost on her, and her brows furrowed, eyes rising upwards to stare at him. “Would I lie to you?” Uncertain if she was hurt by the remark or simply traipsing into other emotions, the youth tried desperately not to harden into a piece of ember or coal, burning from the inside out. “I can send a letter before I come, if that makes things easier.” Instead of showing up unannounced (a very Melita thing to do).
The challenge, the promise, laden within should’ve inspired a series of conspiracies and revolutions in her head – but she could only half-heartedly laugh. Eager for it to be true and real, instead of all these fault lines and despairing pieces of hope. Tucked within his wall of arms and chest and assurances were other notions and sentiments: fears she wouldn’t give voice to, a rise in panic and chaos barbing down the length of her throat. It wasn’t the time. It wasn’t the place. Melita wasn’t certain there’d be one.
But the fragility to come wasn’t lost on her, and her brows furrowed, eyes rising upwards to stare at him. “Would I lie to you?” Uncertain if she was hurt by the remark or simply traipsing into other emotions, the youth tried desperately not to harden into a piece of ember or coal, burning from the inside out. “I can send a letter before I come, if that makes things easier.” Instead of showing up unannounced (a very Melita thing to do).
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
